


Night + Day

by S_Faith



Series: Ella Universe [4]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-25
Updated: 2009-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Further examination into an alternate timeline, where Bridget never went to the Ruby Wedding, Mark had a daughter, and all's well that ends well.





	Night + Day

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up at the end of [As Time Goes By](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500950), and overlaps the happenings of [Time After Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591536) / [Good Night, Sweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609572).
> 
> Many thanks to [Cole Porter for the song](http://www.bluesforpeace.com/lyrics/night-day.htm) that inspired the title, and to U2 for the interpretation that I adore so much.

_Night and day, you are the one_  
_Only you beneath the moon or under the sun_  
_Whether near to me, or far_  
_It's no matter darling where you are_  
_I think of you_  
_Day and night_

* * *

Never in her whole life had she been so nervous about the possibility of ending up in bed with a man; it was ridiculous, and she knew it, but there it was.  Once they had started to kiss, it was as if the years had slipped away; it was her thirty-third birthday again, her friends had gone, they'd both had something to drink, and things were progressing along nicely.

Except she hadn't been thirty-three for some time, it wasn't her birthday, and he had a fifteen-year old daughter waiting for him at home.

"What is it?" he said.  She hadn't realised they'd broken the kiss.

She laughed anxiously between her laboured breaths.  "Nothing."

He stroked her face tenderly.  "You said 'hold on'."

She did not recall saying a word.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, lowering his hand to take hers in his.  "It was not my intention to hurry you into anything tonight.  I apologise if I—"

"Don't apologise," she said sombrely.  "I'm the one having a bloody mid-life crisis whilst you're—"  She clamped her mouth shut.  _Stupid, stupid thing to say._

"Mid-life crisis?"

She lowered her eyes, gazing intently at the fabric of his shirt.

"I thought we had this discussion already," he said tenderly. 

She remembered his very serious response to her fretting about her less-than-youthful body. "I know.  It's just been a long time—"

"I thought we covered that as well."

"No," she said, meeting his eyes again.  "It's been a long time since I've… well. Felt the least bit desirable."  As soon as she said it, she regretted it, because it made her sound like she was desperate for a positive response.  "I mean, I'm not fishing for compliments or anything…" she added, trailing off.

She watched his gaze move to search her face, and he was silent for many, many moments, until at last he spoke.  "I've always thought you desirable," he admitted in a frank tone.  "From that awful launch party, to your faux pas at the summer fete… and especially on your birthday."  He released her hand and lifted it to run his fingers down over her hair before securing her gaze again.  "I still do."  He then bent and, taking to heart her previous admonishment about not needing to ask, kissed her again with exceeding urgency, cupping her head in his hand.

Before she knew it she was pulled up tightly against him, his arms strong and around her, his hands moving across her back.  He broke away, assailing her jaw, throat, earlobe with a multitude of light kisses before she felt his warm breath in her ear.

"After thinking about you for all these years, I never thought I would have the opportunity to do this," he said softly.  "Thought that in my mind I had exaggerated everything about you, because you were the one I never had the opportunity to try with.  The one who'd gotten away."

She didn't really know what to say to this; she had never thought herself the object of anyone's torch-carrying before.

He continued, though, pulling back, taking her hands in his: "Being with you, though… I realise there was no exaggeration at all, and I am so thankful for the chance."

She felt a heat flood her face, felt completely overwhelmed, and turned her eyes down again.

"I'm sorry," he said gently.  "This is obviously too much, too soon.  I should probably go."  She looked up to him as he stood, and she was most decidedly torn; she  definitely didn't want to discourage his attention because she liked it very much, but she wasn't prepared in any way for this tonight.

"Mark," she said plaintively, as it was the only thing she could think to say.  There must have been something desperate about her expression, something panicked, because it seemed to convey her fear that she'd hurt his feelings.

His smile was tender, and he held his hand out to take hers once more.  "I am not so easily deterred," he said.

She tugged his hand, hoping he'd sit again.  "I don't want you to go yet."

He drew his brows together.

"I'm not quite ready for… more, though," she said euphemistically.  "Does that make sense?"

He took a seat by her side again.  "It does."

Considering that so many times in her younger days she'd slept with the likes of Daniel Cleaver after only one dinner, the thought of hesitating now seemed laughable,  but she was older now, a little more set in her ways, a little more self-respect firmly in place.  Even though she liked Mark so much more than that already, she had over the years learned to be more cautious, and when she had strayed from that caution, she had always regretted it.

He took her into his arms again, went to kiss her again, but she stopped him before he did, and asked in perfect seriousness, "I'm not a tease, am I?"

Mark laughed low in his throat.  "Not in a bad way, no."

He leaned forward again for another kiss, and very quickly she was breathless and nearly helpless in his arms.  His hands brushed up against her sides once more, then over her breasts, where the points of her suddenly hard nipples seemed on fire with the light pressure.  She broke away and gasped.

"Mark," she said suddenly.  "It's been a long time."

"You've said that a few times now."

"No," she said, then added to elaborate, "I mean since the last time I had… well.  Sex."

"You would not be the only one in this room who could cop to that," he whispered into her ear.  "It hardly matters."

"It matters to me," she said.

He pulled back to meet her eyes.  "I would hardly be grading you," he said gently.  "Besides, we've already laid down our boundaries, haven't we?"

"Yes," she said in a voice that made her think she might have been willing to set aside her resolve.

"Then relax," he said, "and let's wipe away fifteen years, shall we?"

She smiled, leaning forward, and let herself enjoy being so thoroughly kissed.

………

She awoke with a start, asleep on the sofa, being held in Mark's arms, with only a warm, dim lamp lighting the room.  Her awakening caused him to suddenly open his eyes too.  "Bugger," she said, pushing herself back.  "I'm sorry.  I fell asleep."

"I did, too, in case you hadn't noticed," he said, sitting up and running his hand through his hair.  He glanced to his watch.  "Oh, dear," he said, a grin on his face.  "I'm out long past my curfew."

She smiled too.  "I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm not," he said in return, cupping her face in his hand again.  "Please stop apologising."

She looked up at him bashfully.  "I had a lovely evening.  I'm glad you stopped by."

"I'm glad I have such a tenacious daughter," he said, "and I'm especially glad she was so insistent on candy before the film."

She chuckled.

"I'd love to see you again," he said as they both got to their feet.  "Maybe lunch… or dinner?"

"My schedule is wide open," she said, then joked, "so you might even catch me looking my best."

"Maybe if I keep doing this—"  He dove down to kiss her again.  "—you'll stop with the self-deprecating comments."

"I guess you'll just have to keep trying," she said.

She walked him to the door, and, after another light kiss goodnight, locked it behind him.  She had a stupid grin on her face, and she knew it; she sighed heavily and happily.  What had started out to be a night like any other had turned out to be anything but… and she was beyond ecstatic about it.

………

They ended up seeing quite a lot of each other that following week, culminating in Bridget inviting both Mark and his daughter over for dinner on that Friday.  The night was marred with a touch of culinary disaster, but all in all, everything was going very well.  Now she said cradled in Mark's arm with a movie on the telly, his daughter's attention quite focused on Mr Darcy on the screen; the Mr Darcy in whose arms she snuggled was skirting disaster by nibbling on her earlobe with his daughter just on the chair in front of them.  Of course he had no intention on taking things beyond that, but she could not resist feigning horror at the thought, then kissing him on his chin and his throat before curling up to him, feeling his arms encircle and pull her close.

They seemed to have a habit of sleeping together without actually having sex; that she realised when Mark's pocket began to both shrill with a tone and vibrate, waking them both.  Snapping instantly into action, Mark pushed back the blanket that had mysteriously appeared to cover them, then dug into his pocket, and, with a glance to the caller display, answered it in hushed tones.

His face paled as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line.  "I'm on my way," he said, his voice shaky, before disconnecting.  He turned his dark eyes to her.  "I'm sorry, Bridget.  I have to go."

"Go where?" she whispered.

"It's—my father.  He's been taken by ambulance to hospital, and my mother's in near hysterics because they won't tell her what's going on."

Her hand rose to her mouth.  "Oh my God.  Mark.  I'm sorry.  Shall I… I don't know, drive you?  You don't seem in any condition–"

"No," he said firmly.  "I'll be fine.  I would prefer, actually, that you keep an eye on my daughter.  I don't want to worry her or wake her, and I really don't want to take her with me.  Don't want her to see her grandfather—"  He cleared his throat.  "If you wouldn't mind."

"I don't mind," she said.  "If you want to put Ella in my bed…"

"Yes."  Mark went to where his sleeping daughter sat curled on the chair.  Bridget fleetingly wondered if she had ever been so dexterous as to sleep in such a position.  In a flash, he scooped her up and turned to Bridget.  He turned his eyes to her in a flash of determination, asking abruptly, "Your room?"

"It's… this way."  She led him to the back of the flat, where her bed was, and pulled back the sheets so that Mark could set the girl on the mattress.  He covered her then bent to kiss her forehead before striding out the room, leaving Bridget in his dust.

She found him putting his shoes back on, looking for his jacket.  "Send my love and best wishes," said Bridget softly, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears; she didn't want this to be the way he left her, not so distraught and distracted.

"I will."

Assuring that his keys and his mobile were in place, he stalked towards the flat door and seemed about to leave when he stopped suddenly and walked back to Bridget.  "I'm sorry.  Thank you."

 She nodded, her bottom lip quivering uncontrollably; she cursed herself for not having a better handle on her emotions.  It was silly to be so selfish, not when his father was in an unknown condition.  Quickly he cupped her face in his hand and kissed her.  "I'll call when I know more."

She nodded again, not trusting her voice to speak, then watched him leave before letting the tears come forth.  She wasn't even entirely sure why she was crying; of course he would think first of his daughter, of his parents in this time of crisis.  She supposed she just wished there was more she could do for him; wished she could be with him, hold his hand, reassure him that things would be all right—

She realised just then that she wanted to do all of those things because she loved him, loved him more than she ever thought she could (or should) for a man she had only truly gotten to know over the past week, one she had held in her heart for a long time before that, just hadn't consciously realised it until that moment.

Bridget sunk to the sofa, pulling the blanket to her chin, inhaling; she swore she could still smell him on it.  She sighed.  It was still dark, and she knew she should get more sleep, but she was too restless with the uncertainty of his situation, aching to be there with him and not being able to.  She rested her head on her elbow, staring into the mostly dark room for many minutes, wondering how the drive was going, wondering if his father was all right…

The ringing of the telephone startled her back awake; she had fallen back to sleep after all.  She jumped up, pulled the receiver to her ear.  "Yes?" she said quietly, glancing to the window; the sun was only just beginning to rise.

"Bridget."  By the way he said her name, she could tell he was filled with great relief before he even continued with, "He's fine."

She let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.   "Oh my God.  That's fantastic news."

"Yes," he said, and she heard him sigh.  "I'm afraid I'll have to stay a little longer, for my mother's sake.  But I should be on the road soon back to London."

"Okay," she said.

He was silent for a few moments.  "Thank you again."

"It's no trouble," said Bridget, trying for a light tone.  "Ella's still sleeping."

"I didn't mean to leave—to _be_ so blunt with you."

"I understand," she said, then released a long breath again.  "I really wish I could have been there with you."

He was quiet again; she could only imagine what he was thinking.  Was he wishing the same?  Was he rethinking his closeness with her, realising his family was far more important to him than she was?  Had she presumed too much by saying what she'd said?

"I have to go," he said abruptly.  "My father's calling for me.  I'll see you when I come to pick up Ella."

He hung up before she had a chance to say goodbye, leaving her feeling more uncertain than ever.  Hoping to drown her sorrows in steaming hot water, she went for her bathroom and took a lengthy shower.

………

When Ella woke after full daybreak, she took the news surprisingly well, then, after Bridget offered to drive her to him if needed, Ella called him.  After determining that her father was already on his way back to London, the two of them decided to pop down to get some breakfast, as Bridget had discovered her kitchen was not as stocked as it ought to have been.  Upon their return, Mark's car pulled up to the kerb.  He emerged and his daughter ran over to him, embracing him tightly.  As he walked with Ella over to Bridget's front stoop, he looked uncertain as he thanked her for watching his daughter.  He was all too ready to head home for a nap, and asked Ella if she was ready to go.  Bridget told him he could call when he woke if he wanted to, but he didn't seem that enthusiastic.  Everything seemed awkward.  Bridget felt miserable.

However, it seemed that the romantic optimism of a nearly fifteen-year-old girl was just the thing to dissipate the dark cloud over them, as she prompted her father to kiss Bridget goodbye by pulling away from him and pushing him towards her, insisting he do so.  Bridget chuckled at the girl's audacity.  It was only then that Mark smiled in the way she'd grown accustomed to seeing when that smile was meant for her.  He then leaned forward and kissed her in a very tender manner.

Bridget was glad to realise the uneasiness was not due to anything she herself had done, but to his discomfort at the presence of his daughter, and possibly the way they'd parted on the phone when last she'd spoken to him.  "Talk to you later," he said close to her ear, stroking her cheek softly before backing away from her and returning to his daughter's side. 

She nodded, smiling.

………

Bridget had just been considering her options for dinner when her telephone rang.  It was Mark, just as she'd expected.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said before she'd even had a chance to say hello.  "The situation was very stressful."

"It's all right," she said, cradling the receiver in her hand.

"You didn't deserve my brusqueness," he said.

"I said it was all right.  Don't worry about it."

He was quiet.  "Thank you for understanding."

"Of course."

"To make up for it, and to thank you for being there for us today, I'm taking you to dinner."

She laughed lightly, quietly.  "If you insist."

"I most certainly do," he said; from the tone in his voice, she could tell he was relaxed, well-rested, happy.  "Give me about an hour to get myself together and I'll be by for you."

"Okay.  See you then."

When she hung up the phone, she felt strangely anticipatory without really knowing why.  It was not as if she hadn't gone out for dinner with him before; she'd practically had dinner with him every night since the night he'd first come to apologise.  There was something in the air, though; something she couldn't quite define.  As she attentively primped her hair and touched up her makeup, as she touched light floral perfume to her pulse points, as she slipped into the pair of feminine knickers, lacy lift bra and the brand new dress she'd found on special at Marks & Spencers, she felt almost giddy.

………

True to his word, Mark was there in about an hour's time, and upon seeing his expression as she opened the door, she knew that the unsettling discomfort from earlier that day was truly gone.  "You look beautiful," he said, his eyes flicking down to appraise her.  "Shall we?"  He held out his hand and allowed her to precede him down the stairs, through the hall and out of the building.

As seemed to be his habit, Mark opened the door of his car for her; within moments they were dashing through the streets of London in a pleasant silence.  She reached to trace the pads of her fingers across upon the back of his hand.  He glanced over and flashed a smile to her before returning his eyes to the road.  A rush of joy flooded through her.

His choice of restaurant was one she hadn't heard of, but turned out to be perfect in every way.  The ambience was magnificent, the wait staff was attentive but not obtrusive, and the food and wine were both delectable.  Afterwards they walked to the car, his arm about her waist; she was pleasantly buzzed from the wine and sated on supper, and felt like she could conquer the world.

He released her as they got to his vehicle, clasping her hand gently.  "Shall I take you home, then?"

She smiled up at him warmly.  She wanted very much for him to take her home.  "Good idea," she said.  She squeezed his hand in return.  "I promise not to keep you out too late."

"Have a better idea," he said, letting her hand free.  "You haven't been to _my_ home yet."

"What about your daughter?"

"She's staying with her friend.  Betsy."

Another jolt of delight sparked in her.  "Oh."  She grinned broadly.  "I'd love to."

"Great."

The ride was smooth and blessedly short.  As she expected, Mark's Holland Park house was gorgeous, incredibly decorated in classic motifs, yet distinctly lacking a feminine touch.  She supposed they had not been there long enough for Ella to offer advice on the décor; she also supposed Mark was probably too set in his ways to change things now.

Her smile became wistful.  He had been on his own, with only his daughter, for a very long time.

"Do you like it?" 

She turned to him.  "Oh yes.  It's lovely."

He smiled.  "I know it's a little Spartan."

"Maybe a little.  But it's still wonderful."  She chuckled.  "And about four times the size of my flat."

"Sometimes it feels it," he admitted.  "Come, let me show you around."

He took her down first to the kitchen with its attached sitting room that had a wall of windows as well as a skylight; the main floor housed another, more formal sitting room, a respectable-looking library, a home office, and a dining room.  He then indicated she should head upstairs to the top floor.

"Ella would kill me if she knew I was doing this," said Mark, pushing open the door at the top of the stairs.

It did not take her long to figure out whose room this was.  Where the rest of the house had been _Architectural Digest_ -style perfect and austere, Ella's room was every bit as lively, colourful and enthusiastic as she was.   It was honestly like walking into an alternate universe, with candy pink walls, bold cobalt stars, and posters on the wall of a series of the latest teen heartthrobs.  Bridget smiled up at him.  "I would wager those curtains are trimmed with the only lace in the entire house," she said.

Mark didn't respond at first, then said playfully, "For now."  He then turned to lead her back downstairs.  "Nightcap?"

"Yes, please."  She followed him, but was curious about the tour being cut short.  "What about your own room?" she asked as they went into the front sitting room.  At his wordless query regarding her drink of choice, she pointed to a bottle of dessert wine he had there.

He poured her wine then poured himself a finger's-height worth of scotch.  "More of the same, I'm afraid; severe and unadorned," he said, then turned and handed her the glass of sugared orange wine.  "Here you are."

"Thank you."

He raised his tumbler, and she touched the rim of her glass to his.  "To renewed friendships," she offered.

"To much more," said Mark.

She raised her glass and sipped; the wine was delicious, pure honeyed liquid fire winding its way down into her stomach.  She looked at him, really looked at him, his dark hair peppered with greys, his warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners; he really was a very handsome, very _sexy_ man.  He too raised his drink, sipping at his scotch, his own gaze quite penetrating.

She knew then she wanted to stay.  And she was sure at that moment he knew she did.

His drink was gone with a second sip, and he set his tumbler back down.  Her aperitif glass was small, too, and her wine was gone by the time he came up near to her, sliding his hand around to take hold of her waist, covering her mouth with his.  She could still taste the single malt on his lips, strong and peaty, and she threaded her arms around his neck, raking her nails through the short hair at the nape.

There was something about the urgency of his kiss that made her own that much more so; she grasped him tightly as his palms shifted up her back and at last, he reared his head back, brushed his lips along her cheek.  "Lovely _and_ sweet," he whispered, "and not just because of the wine."

She laughed low in her throat, and when she spoke her voice was thick with her desire.  "I think I'd like to see your severe and unadorned room now."

He pulled back sharply to meet her eyes, searching, as if trying to ascertain whether he'd really heard her correctly.

"So are you going to show me," she teased, "or do I have to find it myself?"

He smiled, then laughed, then stepped away, taking her hand in his and leading her out of the room, up the stairs and to the door at the far end of the hall.

He swung the door open and the sight that greeted her was anything but severe or unadorned; classical sensibilities were in full effect here, ivory, burgundy and deep jewel greens evident in the draperies, the furniture, and the linens on the bed.  Unlike her own flat, there was no clutter, nothing out of place, not even any dust on the dark, glossy wood surfaces.

She stepped in; the room was quite sizeable, with a fireplace, a settee, and a doorway through which she could see an en suite bathroom.  "This room's beautiful." 

"I'm glad you like it," he said.

"I really do."  She turned around the room, looking at it, taking it all in.

"Though I haven't really had a chance to redecorate," he went on.  "Most of what you see was chosen by the people to whom I'd let the house while in New York."

"They had good taste," she said; now that they were out of their heated embrace, she felt inexplicably shy, felt like she was grasping at meaningless small talk.

He came behind her, put his hand on her shoulder; she turned to face him, felt her face blaze with colour.  "Sorry," she said automatically.

"What are you apologising for now?"

She chuckled, glancing down.  "Forgetting how to… _get things started_ in a not-awkward manner."

"For one," he said, "I could light the hearth.  It's a cool night."  His fingers traced along the neckline of her dress.  "Wouldn't want you to get too chilled."

_Little chance of that happening_ , she thought, her heart pounding in anticipation, both at the thought of spending the night with him, making love with him… undressing in front of him. 

He ducked to kiss her, then broke away to get the fire going.  It must have been a gas hearth as it took no time at all.  He switched off the main lamp in the room, then was at her side again.

"Why don't you let me…" he began, not finishing for the kiss he engaged her in, his fingers sweeping along her throat again, undoing the button on the front of her dress.  She moaned into his mouth a little as his fingers went one by one down the front of her cotton dress, until it hung from her shoulders like a housecoat, but only for a moment before he sent it to the ground.

She opened her eyes to see him looking at her, appreciation evident in his expression as they traced an almost tactile path over her breasts, along the lace of her bra, the satin of her pants, the curve of her hips and legs.  She felt heat flood her skin again.

"No need for that," he said.  "You're every bit as gorgeous as I imagined you'd be."

"I was far more gorgeous fifteen—"

"Bridget," he said authoritatively, "that's enough of that."  He kissed her again, with which he'd threatened her for making self-effacing comments during their first snog session.  The pads of his fingers moved on her suddenly-goosebumped skin to embrace her around her waist; she cursed herself for not having kept in better shape as she'd wanted to and wished at least she'd had her thirty-year-old body again for just one night.

His hands slipped down over onto her bottom, gliding on the smooth fabric just below the waistband.  He broke away, muttering, "Damn."

"What?" she asked breathlessly, feeling slightly alarmed.

"This won't do," he said, standing upright again.  "I'm going to get a crick in my neck if I keep this up."   Suddenly he bent at the knees and, in a fluid motion that frankly surprised her, he swept her up into his arms and carried her over to his bed.  It was exhilarating; perhaps the most exhilarating thing that had happened to her in years.  She unexpectedly chuckled in her relief.

With her arms firmly around his neck, he reached to tug back the bedclothes before he gingerly set her down.  Regarding her once more with a reverent gaze, he sat beside her and kissed her.  She brought her hand up to cup his face as they kissed; his fingers brushed down over her shoulder and along the strap of her bra.  The deep kisses turned light and fleeting until he pulled back, meeting her eyes, then looking her over again.

She cursed the bulge of her tummy, the creping of her skin, the whole aging process in general as his hand moved down her arms, fingertips caressing her elbow.  "I feel…" he began, meeting her eyes again, "…distinctly overdressed."

She smiled shyly.  "Oh."

"Let me level the playing field."

He rose, took his shirt off, reached for his buckle and his trouser fastener; as he stepped out of his clothes, pulled off his socks, she mused on how nice a shape he had kept himself in, then felt guilty for gawking.  He smirked.

"I suppose turnabout is fair play, after all," he said as he sat on the bed beside her once more.  He placed one hand on her cheek, one hand on her shoulder, then leaned in to bring his lips to hers.

Before she knew it she was lying back against the pillow, still under the spell of his kiss, and he was stretched out beside her, propped up by one elbow.  She felt his fingers on her skin, down along the lacy edge of the bra and over the hard pebble of her nipple.  She gasped as he pressed his hand against her breast.

His fingers then travelled down to her stomach and grasped her hip; she cringed at the thought of how squashy she must have felt to him, but he only sighed and escalated the passion of his kiss, then nuzzled into her neck as he fingered the elastic of her pants.  "Bridget," he breathed.  "You're the sexiest girl I've ever been with."

Sighing, she tilted her chin up, her lids heavy with desire, which afforded him better access to her throat; she felt his teeth grazing against her neck, her earlobe, as his fingers slid below the top edge of her panties.  In a scratchy whisper, she said his name, brought her hand up to rake her nails on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he stopped and pulled back to meet her gaze, his fingers still just barely traversing her waistband, resting on the hollow of her hip.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I've just had a thought, and I… feel kind of stupid for not having had it before."

"What?" she asked again, feeling a little alarmed.

"It's been a while since I've had sex," he began; the statement sounded ominous to her ears.  "Have practically been a monk since embarking on my life as a single father."

She waited for him to continue.

"Thus… any sort of… _protection_ I might possess is likely to have a sell-by date of years ago."

She couldn't help but smile, then chuckle as she raised and traced a finger along the curve of his eyebrow.  "I'm not going to get pregnant," she said definitively; she still took a low-dose birth control pill to manage hormonal fluctuations, and she was at the middle of the pill's cycle.  "And though I haven't had a check up in a while, I haven't had a shag in a while either, so… there is no need to worry."

He almost looked distressed.  "I didn't mean to insinuate that I thought—" 

"I know."  Her fingers went to the back of his head and pulled him toward her gently.  He took the hint and lowered himself to kiss her.  His fingers brushed against the hollow of her abdomen, and she felt her heart race; he edged them down over her hip, before trailing his fingers up along her side.  He shifted, pressing up against her, and she could very clearly feel exactly how much he wanted her. 

She brought her hand to his waist, found the elastic band of his boxers and pushed it down in a manner similar to what he had just done to hers; this seemed to spark some kind of new fire in him, causing him to push himself up to shimmy out of his underwear, then reaching down for her pants and helping her to pull them over her bottom.

He settled down again, moving so he was mostly against her, skin on skin.  His eyes flicked down, and he reached for the front clasp of her bra with one hand.  After a moment of frustration on his part, she brought her own hands up to open it.  "Was never a skill of mine even when I was a young man," he said with an attempt at levity.  As her fingers opened the clasp and began to draw the halves apart, he brought his hand to touch her skin, to push the fabric aside, to cup her breast, to brush a thumb over its peak, as he kissed her again.

The way he touched her, the way he trailed his kisses from mouth to throat to collarbone to breast, the way he rolled his lips over her nipple, led her to believe that he had retained far more skills from his youth than he wanted to admit; she moaned again, reached for him, beckoning him closer with insistent fingers on his back. 

His fingers glided over her skin, grasped her waist then rounded her bottom as he arched over her; he raked his blunted nails over the back of her thigh, causing her to shiver.  He kept whispering her name, almost like some sort of divine prayer or sacred mantra, his hands seemingly everywhere, driving her wild with gentle, fleeting touches.

"So long I've wanted you," he said close to her ear.  "So long I've loved you."

She blinked, turned her head, opened her eyes to look at him, sudden tears springing forth as she raised her hand to touch his face, to draw him near to kiss him.  _Love you too_ , she thought.  _I really do._

So sudden were his fingers on her thigh, between her legs, touching her, stroking her, that she gasped and broke their kiss, pushing her head back into the pillow; she then felt him settle his weight atop her, heard him groan, felt his fingers move aside, felt him thrust forward—

She actually cried out as he moved in her with an enthusiasm that not just rivalled but beat any of those younger men, those meaningless liaisons from years past.  Her hands grazed along his back, her fingers playing along the lines there, down the valley of his spine to the hollows of his buttocks, which caused him to lose his cadence, but only for a moment.  She grasped his hips, arched up into him with every downward motion; she felt herself rapidly losing herself in this ecstasy, muttering incoherently, gasping for air, until finally she felt herself reach that crest, and with a great cry and his lips upon her neck, she came with a force that rather surprised her.

His pace quickened as if spurred on by her release, and within a matter of a few moments let out a rather loud groan, bucked forward as every muscle went taut.  He dipped his head again, kissing then running his tongue along her chin; he then slipped an arm under her shoulders, placed one hand upon her hip and pulled her over to him as he turned to lay on his side.  He propped himself up briefly to reach for the bed sheets to draw over the two of them, then pulled her close to him once more.

There was nothing said for many moments, though Bridget was sure he was not asleep, not with the way his fingers traced an arc on her back, or the randomly placed kisses to her hairline.  She had her hand splayed on his back, felt it move ever so slightly with his respiration.  "Oh," he said at last, less of a word, more of a sigh with form, before bringing his hand to raise her face to his, and kiss her again.

When he pulled back, she offered him a smile.  "'Oh', indeed," she said impishly.

He laughed low in his throat, then cleared it.  "I must say I'm thankful we have the house to ourselves."

She laughed too, feeling a bit of a blush on her skin; she rested her cheek on his shoulder, and they retreated into a comfortable silence again, snuggled up against him, very warm and cosy.

She heard his voice again just as she was on the edge of sleep, and it was quiet and serious, but not in an alarming way.  "I hope you know that what I said before, I meant.  You truly are what I've been missing in my life all this time."

Again Bridget felt overwhelmed with emotions, and she squeezed her eyes shut to stay the sudden tears in her eyes.  How much she hated Daniel for lying, and she did not use that strong word often; how much she regretted the choices she had made that had led her away from this very good man.

"Hey," he said softly.  "What's this all about?"  She felt his finger under her chin, lifting her face to his.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "So much time we could have been together—"

"Bridget," he said, brushing her tears away with his thumb.  "What's important is now.  Tomorrow.  Next week.  The future.  Okay?"

She nodded.  "Okay."

"And I especially want to revel in now," he said.  "Because I finally have you in my arms, you're absolutely gorgeous in every way, and…"  He paused.  "…I have no intention of letting you go."

"Ever?" she asked, feeling some of her good humour return.  "That could get tricky."

He smiled too.  "This is exactly why I love you."

She stretched up, kissed him on the mouth in a very tender, almost chaste way.  "At the risk of sounding like I'm lobbing the ball back because you lobbed it at me," she said, "I love you too."

He chuckled, tightened his arms around her, seeming to make good on his threat not to let her go.  Frankly, if she could have gotten away with it, she wouldn't have minded at all staying in his arms for all time.  His fingers traced over her skin, kisses rained upon her hair again, and it was to these soothing, caring caresses she found herself drifting off to sleep.

………

When next Bridget opened her eyes, she found herself looking at the burgeoning glow of the rising sun as it illuminated the window blinds.  She felt Mark curled up against her back, spooning her, his arm around her waist, his hand resting upon her breast, his warm breath racing along the fine hairs on her temple.  

It was a very wonderful place to be… except she had to use the toilet in the worst possible way.

Shifting a bit, she was able to extract herself from his protective embrace and got to her feet.  She looked back to him, smiling fondly at his slumbering form, before tiptoeing to the en suite bathroom.

After she splashed water on her face, smoothed down her hair, used a little toothpaste on her finger to brush her teeth, she thought she might head down to the kitchen and make some coffee for them as a prelude to breakfast.  She went back into the bedroom; on top of his bureau she found a crisply folded pair of men's pyjamas.  With a grin, she grabbed the top and dressed in it before padding downstairs.

The coffee and the coffee maker did their level best to avoid detection, but she was ultimately triumphant, and the scent of fresh coffee began wafting through the lower level in very short order.  As she waited for it to finish, she wandered to the windows to watch the sun dapple the landscaping in shades of gold as it rose higher into the sky.  It seemed for a time that she wasn't in London at all, but rather the country, and there was no one for miles around but the two of them.

She felt a hand on her waist at the same time she felt a kiss in her hair.  "Better be careful," he said throatily.  "The neighbour in that direction is quite nosy, despite the laurels."

"I'm sorry," she said, turning to find him smiling jauntily at her; he was wearing the bottoms to the pyjamas as well as an undershirt, and he looked somehow adorable and sexy at the same time.  "I don't want to cause a scandal."

"Don't apologise," he said.  "This sort of scandal I'd be happy to confirm: beautiful woman fetches up in my kitchen dressed in my pyjama top, looking like an angel framed by the windows and lit by morning sun."

She giggled, turning her eyes downward almost shyly. 

He clasped her hand.  "Come, I think the coffee's finished brewing."

She was amused to see that he was having almost as hard a time locating things in the kitchen as she had; he eventually found two mugs, poured both cups, and asked her if she wanted cream or sugar.

"Yes please, both."

He brought the mugs around to where she'd come to stand at the breakfast nook, and handed the mug with the lighter coffee to her.  She took a sip.  It was perfectly sweetened.  She raised her eyes up to him and smiled again.

He drank from his own cup, then seemed to stop in mid-motion, his eyes studying her face, his brows furrowing.  He said nothing, just looked at her as he lowered the coffee mug.

"Is the coffee that bad?" she joked weakly.

"No.  It's not that at all."  He set his cup down, then reached for hers and set it down beside it, then took her hand in his.  "I don't mean to turn this into a serious conversation after such a wonderful evening and an equally promising morning, but there's no time like the present… this is all very sudden, I realise, but after the time that's passed, what happened with my father…"

He drifted off, but his expression was no less conflicted.  She felt her emotions threatening to get the better of her again, and she swallowed hard.  It almost sounded like he was about to give her the heave-ho, which made no sense given everything that had occurred… 

"What are you saying, Mark?" she asked, her voice tremulous.

Mark closed his eyes, seeming to consider his words carefully, then let out a long, slow breath.  "There's a lot of time to make up for, and I've had a very blunt reminder this week that life is all too fragile, so I want to start as soon as possible." He opened his eyes again, his gaze penetrating.  "Will you marry me?"

She gasped in surprise, searching his eyes for some indication that he could have possibly been teasing her.  He clearly was not.  She was absolutely, utterly and completely dumbfounded, and did not have the slightest idea of how she should answer.

"You're right," she said, sure her skin had gone paper-white with her shock.  "This is sudden."  She leaned against the counter for additional support.  "I don't know what to say."  She lifted her eyes to him. "What about… living together… being around each other all the time? Won't I drive you crazy?"

He offered her a smile, though clearly he was still hoping for a positive response.  "I'm hoping you will."

She glanced to the side, to her coffee cup, and wondered how she'd gone from a lovely shag and morning coffee to a marriage proposal.   The coffee was unhelpfully silent. 

Mark added, "If you're daunted by the responsibility of living with a headstrong fifteen-year-old girl—"

Her eyes flashed up to him.  "Oh, no," Bridget said quickly. "I adore Ella, but I'm not sure she'd like me as a stepmum. What would she say?"

That's when it happened, when she realised they were not alone for this very serious conversation:

"To say 'yes'!"

In a flash Mark's head raised to look at something behind Bridget; his face betrayed his fury.  Suddenly mortified, Bridget turned to face Ella, taking her hand from Mark's, and trying to pull the amply long lower edge of the pyjama top even farther down.

"Ella! It's not polite to eavesdrop!"

The girl looked genuinely distraught, and began to speak with a pleading, "Dad…" before going perfectly still and looking down.  For Bridget, though, the outburst had sparked an epiphany.

Even with so short a courtship, Mark was everything she wanted in a friend, a companion, and now a lover.  There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him; during his brief time of crisis, his pain had been her own.  Bridget realised in a flash that the _only_ thing holding her back from accepting his unexpected proposal was the thought that Ella might resent her coming into their lives, taking attention away from a father she had always had to herself…

That definitely did not appear to be the case.

Bridget broke the uneasy silence with quiet words.  "Mark.  Don't scold her when she's helped me to make up my mind."

And then she smiled.

Mark, when he spoke, sounded like he'd been punched in the gut.  "Really," he breathed, as if he couldn't believe his good fortune.

"Really," she confirmed, her grin broadening.  " _Yes._ "

………

After Mark had taken Bridget into his arms and kissed her without restraint, she had heard his daughter squeal with delight, causing both of them to laugh.  It had been a wonderful, confirmatory moment—that his daughter really was willing to accept her into their lives—even if Bridget had been horribly embarrassed to have been caught in nothing but a pyjama top.  Mark, after sort of warning her that life with Ella might not be as easy as the last few encounters, had escorted Bridget back up to the bedroom with promises to his daughter and to her of an afternoon of shopping.

The apparent catalyst of their engagement, the two cups of coffee, had been completely forgotten.

She thought only briefly of her coffee as she reached to pick her discarded dress up from the bedroom floor.  It was a wrinkled mess, and she furrowed her brow as she held it up.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't wear this," she said.  "It's obviously spent the night in a pile on the floor."

He chuckled as he took it from her hands.  "There's only one thing to be done about it.  Hang it in the bathroom and let the steam from the shower work the wrinkles out."

"Shower?"

He grinned, approaching her, working the buttons of the pyjama top open, one by one.  "Shower," he reaffirmed.

"What about Ella?"

"She's a wonderfully patient girl," he said, "and mine is a private bathroom."

She laughed.  She could always dry her hair with his hairdryer.

Within a minute or two, she was without her pyjama top, and felt terribly vulnerable and shy.  "That will not do," said Mark, seeing her reaction, tracing his fingers along her abdomen.  "If I say you're beautiful, that your body is perfect to me in every way, you have to believe me.  That's part of the agreement."

"I see," she said, smiling, hardly believing her own good fortune.  Taking her dress and a clothes hanger in one hand, he took her hand in the other, and pulled her into the bathroom.  "So it stands to reason that that same is true for me.  Or rather, _you_."

He turned from flipping the water on and looked at her, raising a single brow.  "I've never considered myself a perfect male specimen."

"As you yourself said, that would be in the eye of the beholder."

He grinned, then after putting her dress on the hanger and hooking the hanger over a towel peg, he stood upright to divest himself of his clothing.  As he did so, she could not help but think how very wrong he had been about himself.  He was no lean young whippersnapper, but he was (as her eyes and hands had proven to her the evening before) in very good shape.

"I do hope you're not reconsidering your acceptance," he teased. 

"On the contrary," she said, "I can only think of how much work I have to do to catch up to you."

He chuckled.  "Mutual admiration.  I approve."

He stepped into the shower, then pulled her in behind him.  He turned her so that she was beneath the water, which sluiced down over her face, causing her to laugh unexpectedly.  She felt his hands run back over her head, pushing her hair away from her face, then, with the water rushing down over them, he kissed her again, his hands racing over the small of her back, slipping over her bottom.

"We're supposed to be showering," she said breathlessly as he pressed her up against the tiled wall.

"We are showering," he said huskily, trailing his fingers over her hip and along the top of her leg.  "But remember, we do need a good cloud of steam to straighten your dress out."

By the time they were finished with everything, up to and including a good shampoo and washing up, her dress was looking much improved, and she was veritably glowing from much more than just a good dose of hot water and suds.

As he towelled off afterwards, Bridget asked, "So where do you keep your hairdryer?"

"I don't have a hairdryer," he said matter-of-factly.

"Oh."

"If you like I could ask Ella—"

"No, that's quite all right," Bridget said sharply.  "It dries quickly."

"She wouldn't mind."  He smiled, then embraced her again.  "You know," he murmured, "my daughter has already figured out we've slept together.  She's not stupid.  But if you insist on shopping with damp hair…"

She smiled, nestling briefly into his embrace, even as she turned bright red; indeed, the girl was not stupid.

………

Shopping had turned out to be an unqualified success.  She came away from the excursion with rather more than she expected: a lovely solitaire ring to seal the deal, which he placed upon her finger, even though the tears made witnessing the actual event somewhat foggy for her.  He bought his daughter something as well, a necklace to perfectly match Bridget's favourite one, her floating heart pendant.  Ella thought it was just about the greatest thing ever to have a necklace to match Bridget's.

They all had dinner together, had a marvellous time with each other; Bridget giggled helplessly when she saw 'Orange Parfait in Sugar Cages' on the dessert menu, and Mark insisted they each have a serving.  As they departed the restaurant, Bridget's hand firmly in Mark's, she realised she was torn.

She wanted to return to his house with him, but it was Sunday night, she had to work, and with Ella there… she knew in her heart she really should go back to her own flat.  After so much time with him over the last twenty-four hours, being alone in her flat was going to seem terribly quiet and mercilessly lonely.  She was going to feel like Cinderella having come back from the ball to face the reality of returning to sweeping ashes.

Her comfort would be her ring, she supposed, and reliving the whirlwind weekend by sharing the good news with her friends.

"Bridget," said Mark, as they approached the car.  "Are you okay?"

"Okay?" she responded.  "Yes, I'm fine.  Just feeling a little sleepy."

It seemed like he wanted to press on but decided not to with Ella right there climbing into in the back seat.  Bridget took the passenger seat as Mark engaged the engine.

"So do you—" Mark began, then halted, glancing to her.  "Have to work tomorrow?"

"Yes," Bridget said, turning her eyes to him.  "I do."

"So does that mean you're not staying over again, Bridget?" asked Ella, head tilted, eyes inquisitive, bold as brass.

Bridget swore that Mark turned five shades of purple; she likely did herself, with the way heat flooded over her skin.  "Well," he said.  "She would be welcome to if she's able to."  At the light, he turned to face his daughter.  "You, my dear, will have to learn to mind your own business."

Bridget for one was glad for Ella's bad habit.

"Sure," said Bridget abruptly.  "I mean, I suppose it's something I'll need to get used to sooner or later, right?"

Mark turned to look at Bridget; it was only the jarring sound of the horns of vehicles behind him that prompted him to start driving again once the light had changed.  "Yes, I suppose so."  She could see, though, the smirk on his face.  He definitely got what he wanted, too.

"I would like to stop by my flat, though," she said.  "Get a few… things."

"Sure," said Mark.  "I'll drop Ella home first."

After depositing his daughter at his house, he brought Bridget back to her flat.  She found her answerphone blinking like mad.  She asked, "Do you mind my checking?"

"Of course not."

There were five messages in total, all from Sharon; Bridget vaguely and guiltily recalled some kind of possible plans with her friend over the weekend.  The last one caused Mark to sputter with barely-controlled laughter:

"Well, Bridget," began Shaz in a sepulchral tone, "I can only assume that the Alsatians have finally gotten you.  Will make sure your funeral and memorial services are stocked with plenty of Chardonnay."  There was a long pause.  "Say hello to him for me, will you?"

Bridget had not previously realised it was possible to be mortified and smug at the same time.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> For Bridget's orange dessert wine, [Essensia](http://winecask.blogspot.com/2005/04/essensia-2003-orange-muscat-dessert.html) is what I had in mind; it is absolutely delightful. Here's [another review](http://www.quadywinery.com/essensia.html). (It's not made of oranges, but is it reminiscent of oranges.)


End file.
